


womb

by skywalkings



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing and Singing, F/M, Fake Dating, Fluff and Smut, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John Constantine Needs A Hug, Mentions of Cancer, Mentions of Cigarettes, Mutual Pining, Pregnancy, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, Tattoo Touching, Tenderness, Touch-Starved John Constantine, Unplanned Pregnancy, Yearning, Yearning Baby!!!!, anyway, do i even have the right to call it slow burn, its brief but its there, slight soulmate aspects if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21581506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywalkings/pseuds/skywalkings
Summary: in which John Constantine fathers the next Hellblazer, all while drowning in his feelings for their mother.
Relationships: John Constantine/Original Character(s), John Constantine/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 40





	1. Week 2

**Author's Note:**

> ok so, i decided to post this a little earlier than i was planning bc i don’t want this to get yeeted from my drafts. anyway, i just wanted to say a very quick thank you to my friends kiana, em and cat who have all read parts of my fic or collaborated on ideas or just been there to hype me up. i really appreciate it !!!  
> alright, i hope you enjoy !

The Half-Breed John banishes bears a vague resemblance to the woman from the other night. 

He rests one leathery shoe on the half-breed’s bony shoulder (weight enough to keep her down, but not enough to make her angrier than she already is), his eyes curiously roaming her half-scarred face. They share the same hair, the same heart-shaped face, but that’s where the resemblances end. Or at least, that’s where the memory of what the other woman looks like ends. There are patches in his memory of her, evidenced in the way her eye colour switches from green to blue to hazel when he thinks of her in that brief moment. 

Half-Breed demons are always ugly underneath. It doesn't matter if their faces are like marbled statues, underneath their always-perfect skin is the familiar shade of green. It's sickly and scaly, decaying flesh and tooth hanging onto bones with only an ounce of strength. Her burning skin smokes as she writhes, the acrid smell of rotting flesh burning the back of his throat like always. He's used to it now, but the smell still bothers him immensely.

Pressing on, John quickly flicks through his Bible, a small little book with fading gold letters and a battered cover. The feel of the old paper, scratchy and dry, does not bother his weathered hands anymore, not like they did when his hands were once soft and fresh. The body underneath him writhes impatiently, tied legs slamming against the wooden floor like fists against a coffin.

“Hurry up or don’t bother,” She hisses.

“I have to do this right, don’t I?” John quips, his usual dry and sarcastic tone abundant in the way he speaks, “I don’t exactly wanna catch you back up here,”

“Bite me.”

Smirking, with eyebrows furrowed, he replies, “You’re not my type.”

His powerful voice echoes throughout the room, only stopping to douse the half-breed in Holy water when she won’t stop her whining. Her skin flares up in smoke once more, swearing and hissing at him as he continues, unfazed as he banishes her. Her body disappears in a whirring black cloud, the stench of sulfur violently attacking his nostrils.

It’s late July, and the summer heat is almost unbearable. When he returns home in the late afternoon, the sun still not yet ready to dip behind the buildings, he sinks into the cool water of the bath. Sweat beads along his forehead like a string of expensive pearls, and he hastily wipes them away with a wet hand. It’s the first of many hot days that will inevitably come as July progresses, but at least the nights are still cool.

The woman from the other night crosses his thoughts as the muggy air swells in the bathroom. _Peony_ was her name. He remembers a humid hotel room, the click and whir of the fan above them as he buried himself deeply in her wetness, hips bumping with her own as he fucked her into the mattress. Her skin was so soft under his hands; he remembers quite fondly the feel of the inside of her thigh, and how her legs wrapped around his waist. Meeting her was a complete fluke. It was the tenth, and for once, John was somewhere that wasn't Papa Midnite's club. Frankly, he didn't remember where he was that night, all he remembered was desperately needing a drink and sitting next to her. Her face was shaped by honey-blonde locks of hair, and the glow of the bar lights shone around her face like a halo — almost a supernatural phenomenon. They flirted, innocent and casual, and before he could even ask if she wanted to come back to his place she suggested a motel down the street. She didn't seem like the 'clubbing' type, in memory, perhaps she was there on a whim just as he was. She was friendly, and gentle, like the feel of a sun-shower against his cheek. 

He brushes the thought away with a cold hand dragging down his dry face, over-passing prickly stubble as he brings himself back to reality. Intimacy is fun to chase, but nothing is ever permanent, and with stinging resentment (directed at himself, of course, for John resents himself _most_ ) he tells himself casual flings are the only forms of human affection he will ever receive. He scrubs the sulfur smell from his skin, working the perfumed soap over his body and the shampoo through his dark hair, and reminds himself that he isn’t worth the bother of affection anyway.

The sun is finally drifting into the horizon when he’s finished, and he goes to watch it from the solace of his balcony, wet drops of bathwater falling from his damp hair and onto his shoulders. So much has changed over the last few months. For one, he’s (mostly) quit smoking. He hasn’t smoked since the November of the previous year, but he still longs for the toxicity of a Yangste River cigarette often. What he would do for one right now, to suck in the acrid air and let it permeate his fresh lungs, like the first sacred kill of a spring-time hunt. But no, he has to settle on a peppermint gum, for it keeps his cravings occupied. 

Constantine is now a one-man operation, too, now that Hennessy and Beeman are gone. Chas drops in every now and again, as much as he can without rule-breaking, but it isn’t the same. Papa Midnite is still around, but he operates on neutral ground, and there is only so much he will do to help the exorcist. John thinks about Hennessy, Beeman and Chas often, and the pit of his stomach churns when he reminds himself that their efforts to help _him_ directly led to their deaths.

He was thankful for them, but thanks didn't exactly reanimate the dead. Thanks didn't extend their lives. Thanks was shit to dead people.

Some things have returned to normalcy, though. His solitude (brought on by his breakup with Angela) has returned like an unkillable pest, almost tauntingly reminding John that he isn't meant to attach himself to others. It wasn't that he and Angela ended on bad terms, of course. They ended on good footing, both still present in the other's life but not sharing the connection that lovers do. _Lovers_. Could he even count them as such? They slept together perhaps twice the entire month they dated. It wasn't that they didn't _want_ to, but it was a busy month, and time was often the enemy of affection. Angela is still present in his life, but not in the same way. It's stale and awkward when they talk, but they continue to do so, hoping that perhaps they will break through the glass that boxes them in as 'just exes'. Even as exes go there's still that bond they share; the one truly selfless act John committed for Isabel will never be marred by his and Angela's failed relationship.

He tells himself he doesn't need attachments, so much so that he is deluded into believing that one's own company is sufficient for survival. But whether it be a lack of proper friends or a healthy relationship, John knows deep down he's lonely again — for the first time since he moved to the city and began his practice. No matter how much he ignores how he feels or tells himself that everything is fine, his skin still grows cold with the feeling. The truth is, John _knows_ how overwhelmingly disconnected he is from others, and try to ignore it as he might, it makes him feel hollow. 

The sun is now completely sunken into the horizon, gorgeous yellows and oranges streaking across the sky like fine art. John gazes, collecting his thoughts as he does so, before he will lock them into a box labelled 'to move past' and to tell himself to never revisit, although he will, because this is John, and his own self-loathing keeps him going. He locks away the smoldering heat, the cravings he has for his acidic little death sticks, his thoughts on Angela, on the friends he has lost because of himself, and the overwhelming discontent he feels. But he still thinks of Peony. He doesn't lock the thought of her away.


	2. Week 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: mentions of character deaths from the film

It is a minute past 8 AM, and John Constantine, Hellblazer, the protector, the demon slayer, is still relishing in the comfort of his bed. The weather reporter’s promise of rain has not yet been fulfilled, and the muggy early-August heat has stifled the room, but a standing fan does its best to keep John cool. This is a rare day off, following a busy few weeks of Half-Breed deporting and the occasional artifact drop. Half-Breed activity has spiked unusually high, and John often thinks with uncertainty if this is going to be another Mammon situation. But right now, John walks the fine line between sleep and consciousness, trying not to think, not to stir, and to let his body fall back into a deep pit of slumber. 

The sounds outside his window don’t irritate him; they are fodder, mere background noise to his semi-conscious sleep. The sounds are the beeps of cars, short honks and toots as the traffic stifles like sardines in a can. As promised, the rumble of thunder sounds in the sky. It’s accompanied by the soft sounds of rain, a promising release from the heat, and fat droplets start pit-patting against his window as they grow in intensity. He stirs, vague and sleepy, from his rest, throat dry and jaw slack, and flips on his back, distantly listening to the rain pouring outside his window.

Sleep almost takes his hand, almost covers his senses with unconsciousness, but he is roused by a sharp few knocks at his door. It fills the near empty apartment with urgency, eliciting a groan from deep within his body. The knock is punctuated by the almost immediate silence that follows it, but the sound returns swiftly, accompanied by the light siren calls of a visitor.

“Mr. Constantine?” The visitor asks, and their voice is familiar; feminine and light, but there is a sense of urgency to it. 

“One day off, I just want one day off,” he mumbles to himself, then, with voice raised and tone annoyed, “I’m busy.” Desperate to ignore it and continue with his rest, he pushes his head into the pillow.

“It’s urgent,” The voice replies hastily. 

His eyes roll into the back of his skull, a deflated sigh squeezed from his lungs. Duty calls, sleep will have to wait.

Regretting every move, he heaves himself from the comfort of his sheets and lugs himself across the threshold. The apartment has not changed much over the past few months — the smoke smell is gone (that was the _first_ to go; he couldn’t quit with that toxically addictive smell hanging around him — not that he can smell much of course, considering the smoking decimated a good quarter of his ability to smell.) There is also a small television set in the corner of the room (boxy, and with two antenna to match), accompanied by a small two-seater sofa facing it. The furniture isn’t arranged neatly in the slightest — it’s been shoved wherever it could fit without bothering the rest of his space, and he doesn’t hate it that way. Frankly, he’s rather indifferent to how it looks.

Approaching the door, he hears the knocking again, like a persistent clock ringing in the hour. _It can’t be that urgent_ he thinks, but he reminds himself that no, given what these past few months have provided him with, it very well could be. But still, did it have to be at 8AM? With a quick rub of his eyes, John opens the door, and is instantly surprised by the visitor.

Standing there, flustered and nervous, is Peony, the woman from the other night. A regular deer caught in the headlights. She looks at him as if she weren’t expecting him to be there, let alone to answer the door, and she’s silent for a few moments as he watches her register his presence. 

“Are you here for anything in particular?” he ventures, watching her smoothe down her emerald green skirt.

“Yes, you. Oh! Well, not like— not like _that_ , listen can I just come in?” She asks, and her words shoot past his ear at a hundred miles an hour.

In his usual crabby and indifferent tone, he replies, “What’s this about?” 

“It’s just about the other night, may I come in?”

“This couldn’t have been a phone call?” 

“You didn’t give me your number. Can I please come in?”

“Then how did you get here?”

“You told me you lived in the apartment above the bowling alley on third in South Broadway. I asked the people downstairs,” She recounts quickly, and with the same antsy tone, “Now will you just let me in?”

His sleep is already gone. The few hours he got were nice. With face stoic and eyes trained on her, he opens the door wider. He watches as her face switches, and her previously rushed tone is replaced by one of uncertainty.

John observes her as she minces in the door, her gingerly steps underscored by the gentle click of her heels against the floor. She’s shorter than he remembers, 5’5 if he guessed correctly, and her honeyed hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail with a royal blue ribbon. He can see a dusting of freckles on her cheeks he had not noticed that night, hidden under a layer of foundation. She looks fresh with her dewy skin, but he still can’t quite gather the colour of her eyes, as they remain trained on the floor. There is a part of him, deep within his chest, that is happy to see her. She was kind, and gentle, but that was only one night, and it’s pointless to think of her that way anymore. She is a stranger now, and he knows it should remain as such. So he buries those feelings deeper, as soon as they raise their heads to the daylight of his consciousness. 

“So, what is it you’re here for?” He asks, going to the drawers in the kitchen to fetch a mint gum.

“I promise this will only be quick, I’ve got work in an hour,” 

“That doesn’t answer why you’re here, though, does it?” And he pops a gummy in his mouth, chewing down on the peppermint as he listens to her.

“I know this is completely off the cuff and I’m certain you weren’t expecting me, so I’m sorry for being here so early. But maybe it would be best if you sat down,”

Brash and impatient, he says, “I’m only tired, Peony, I’m not gonna collapse. Unless you’re gonna waste my time, then I might do so from boredom. Are you?”

“No, I won’t ‘waste your time’. I just didn’t want to startle you,” she says, and he throws a look over his shoulder to check on her, her face is flushed, and her brows knotted.

“And why would you startle me?” He asks, and he turns back to the bench.

John almost goes to reach for a glass when she asks, in a gentle and weary voice, “Please just look at me. This is important to me,”

He looks over his shoulder again, watching her as she shifts under his gaze. She’s...Well, she’s been kind enough to him. And it seems important. So the least he can do is give her his attention, and he turns to face her, leaning against the bench.

Voice low and somber, he asks, “What is it, then?” 

He should’ve seen it coming from miles away. The flushed look of her face, the way she fidgeted and shook under his brown eyes, the mere fact she was even _there_. The way she insisted it was important. And with two words she had certainly woke him up; those two little words had shaken his shoulders and splashed him in cold water. With two little words, she had crashed a meteor into his life plan — not that he had one, but it certainly didn’t involve this.

He certainly needed that drink right now.

“John?” She asks him, and she looks even more stressed, “You don’t have to be involved, at all, not if you don’t want. I understand you’re—,”

“You’re keeping it, then,” he manages to croak, and he realises with growing uncertainty that out of all the things in the world, both above and below, the approaching reality of fatherhood made him feel most uneasy. Demons and half-breeds were a walk in the park compared to _this_ weighing on his conscience.

“Well, yes. This is something I’ve wanted for a long time, Mr. Constantine,” she explains, voice wavering like a school child caught breaking the rules. What little portion of John that _is_ empathetic toward others takes pity on her in that moment — she looks so lost, so utterly out of her depth, almost drowning in the emptiness of his apartment. 

But John is, well, _John_ , and telling her anything of any help is near impossible. So he does what he does best — makes it worse, in his own special way.

“But we used protection. You can’t have gotten pregnant,”

“I know, but condoms only work, like, 97% of the time,”

“And you aren’t on birth control, I take it,”

“No, I haven’t been on it in a while, and I don’t appreciate the way you’re talking to me,” she scowls, jaw tightening as a blush scatters across her face. She collects her frustrations and smoothes out her tone, “I’m sorry to interrupt whatever it is you’re doing, okay, but it’s important that you know. I’m four weeks along right now. I only found out last week, I’ve been to one appointment just to be sure, but I have my next one in two weeks, and you’re welcome to come if you like. But, of course, you don’t— you don’t _need_ to, you don’t even need to talk to me if you don’t want, I understand completely,” she says, and she starts to the door, “Look, if it’s easier, just give it a week. Ruminate on it a little. You don’t need to be involved with my baby, not if you don’t want,” She says, and she goes to open the door, “Did you need my number just in case?”

“Yeah, fine.” he nods, and with debilitating hunger he longs for a cigarette.

They exchange numbers and he watches her leave quickly, like a gazelle avoiding a lion. He watches the doorknob, as if waiting for her to return and proclaim this whole situation a joke, simply an exhaustion-induced hallucination that will walk back into the door and tell him to go back to bed. But the door doesn’t open, and as the moments pass on the knowledge that he’s going to be a father sinks into his skin. 

She’s different from that night. That night, she was open, relaxed. She was as bubbly as champagne and warm like the sun. But today, she’s reserved, more cautious around him, like he’s a ticking time bomb. He’s different too, he thinks. Crabbier and more irritable. Why did he have to be such a dick for? She’s pregnant to a complete stranger, and he’s not exactly the most sociable person. She doesn’t know him, and for that matter he doesn’t know her. He doesn’t know her birthday, doesn’t know what she likes and dislikes, doesn’t even know her last name. 

His legs feel like lead as they lead him over to the window. The light rain has slowly progressed into a storm, unusual for August, even more so for Los Angeles. He peers over the window grates and through the glass he can just make out her green skirt as she stands by the curb, hand barely covering her head. 

He has to go. God, how he just wants to curl up into a ball and go back to bed. But he has to, because it’s the right thing to do. And the kid with the ant farm upstairs will judge him if he doesn’t.

Chas’ taxi is no longer at his disposal, so John has switched back to a little black car after months of not having his license. Speeding tickets, running red lights, reckless endangerment, it had all piled up to have his license revoked. God, what a hassle getting that back was. The car’s not great, hell, it's barely _good_ , but it gets him from A to B, although he does miss the company that having Chas driving him around brought. He leaves the comfort of his apartment to fetch it from its dry garage spot under the building, a towel in tow, and as he drives it out into the storm the pummel of rain bashes against the windscreen. He rounds the corner and turns his head to see her huddled under shelter. Her green skirt is darkened by rain drops, and her once fluffy hair is damp and flat against her head, loose strands wavy and wet against her cheeks. He beeps, leaning over the passenger seat to hastily crank down the window. Her head raises as he shouts at her over the storm to get in, rain swerving and sputtering in his face as if it were a joke from on high. He cranks it closed.

As his eyes focus back on the road, he listens to the rain, the thumping of it against his car. It reminds him of a day just over thirty years ago, when he was barely seven years old. The Summer of 1974. He had watched a woman standing outside his window, in the openness of his front yard as it poured. Her hair was gray and pale, almost the same shade as her face, and her sunken eyes stared at him through the glass, burning into his memory. He didn’t dare tell anyone, the last time he did his mother had berated him, stuck him in his closet and kept it shut as punishment. He remembers how his little brown eyes hastily shut to lock out the visitor’s grave face, but her aura clung to him like smoke, and her face settled in the curves of his memory. It was before he knew how to control his powers, how to ‘turn off’ his psychic senses, a skill he valued every day. What he could see was permanent, but the feelings of auras were easier to switch off. Every now and again he is reminded of her dull features, her white-hot aura burnt into his memory, and a shiver lurks up his spine.

The clap of the car door shutting yanks him from his memory, and he looks to his right to see her sitting, almost soaking, in the passenger seat. He offers her the towel, which she gratefully takes and pats against her hair.

“Thank you,” she says softly, pulling the ribbon from her hair, letting her wet tresses unfurl against her shoulders.

Moments pass by silently as she dries the rest of herself off, and his eyes remain staring blankly out the window, listening to the drum of the rain. He stares out the window, and in the distance there is a gray glow, and by the fire hydrant stands the gloomy ghost of Beeman. Sullen features, smoky eyes staring at him with sadness and regret. He follows him. Everyone John has lost follows him.

John’s gaze with his old friend falls, and when he looks back up he sees the smoke of an old ghost, apparating away. He can never quite say what he needs to.

“Everything okay?”

John looks beside himself to meet her gaze. He brushes his feelings aside.

“Fine. So, you’ve got work?” He asks when he sees her fold the towel neatly in her lap.

“Yeah. Yeah, I was— I was gonna grab a taxi, but I appreciate the lift. Or, I mean, I _assume_ it’s a lift I don’t want to impose,”

“No I just thought it’d be neat to sit in a completely still car on the side of the road,” he replies dryly, and he listens to her chortle. Looking over at her, he sees her straighten her face.

“Sorry,” she smiles, “I appreciate it. I do,”

There’s something very reassuring and gentle in her face, as she wipes away a strand of damp hair behind her ear. He offers her a weak smile, because it’s the least he can do, and he might as well try to be less sour.

“Where are we going then?”

“Oh right! Silly me. Um, the elementary school down on seventh? Maybe ten minutes from here without traffic? You know it?”

“Nope,”

“I’ll show you. Just keep going straight up here,”

He begins to drive, and the air stifles into silence again as the usual LA traffic halts their journey, barely five minutes in.

But he notices her face turn to his in his peripheral, followed by her voice asking, “So, what do you do, Mr. Constantine? You never said when we met,”

He dodges the question like he usually does, reinforcing his walls of solitude, “John is fine,” 

“Right. John. What do you do, then, _John_?” 

He won’t consciously admit it, but he likes it when she says his name.

“Uh. I’m a detective,” _Of sorts_.

“A detective, huh? That has to be interesting. Are you working on anything now?”

He looks over at her for a moment as the traffic picks up again, and she watches him with a cheery inquisitivity. His eyes focus back to the road, “So you’re an elementary teacher? What grade?”

“First. I _love_ first grade; they’re inquisitive and funny and creative and— well, they’re really great kids. I love my class, I’m really lucky. I’ve only had them for a week now but they’re awesome kids,” 

“So, what do the kids call you?”

“Miss June,” she says, and she gives him a look, “Oh, you’re smart. You didn’t know my last name, I see what you did,”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying. Look, I mean, really, what do we know about each other? Nothing,”

“Well, you’re not wrong. But John, I meant what I said earlier. You don’t need to be involved, not if you don’t want to. Right here,” he turns, pulling down another street, and her voice continues, “I don’t expect you to come to a decision now. But just give it a week, see how you feel,”

He nods solemnly, and the car falls silent again. 

The rest of the drive is as such, the only sounds being the rain and the hum of the engine. His eyes drift over to her occasionally, her hands twisting in her lap, and the reality of the situation settles more into his bones.

They round another corner and a white, two story building comes into view. A large iron gate surrounds the grounds, and children in colourful raincoats jump around gathering puddles while looming parents watch with eagle eyes. A sign above the gate reads ‘Bellehaven Elementary’ in iron letters.

“So, this is where you work?” He asks awkwardly, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah. Thanks for the lift again,”

“Don’t you have a car of your own?”

“I do,” she shrugs, unbuckling her seatbelt, “But I’m not allowed to drive it,”

“Oh yeah? How come?”

She blushes, eyes catching his, and a sheepish smile spreads across her cheeks, “Speeding tickets,”

Though first caught off-guard by her statement, a smirk spreads across his face, chuckling as she opens the door. How funny to think someone like her was any way like him. _Speeding tickets_ he thinks to himself, and he considers that they at least have something in common. The school bell rings just as she goes to leave.

“Thank you again, Mr.— John. Thank you, John,” she says quickly, opening the door, “Please call! Whatever you decide, just let me know,”

The door claps shut and he watches her dart across the road, her boots splashing in puddles as she rushes to the gate. He quickly unwinds his window, rain pouring in, and the words tumblr from his mouth in a shout.

“Peony!” And she looks back over to him, “I’m sorry for earlier.” he shouts, and she nods in a knowing way as he winds up his window. As she walks through the gates a few colourful little raincoats begin to follow her, and he watches as she greets every one like it were the apple of her eye. She looks up at him from under the shelter of the building, now just a figure in the distance, and she waves him good-bye. Even from there he can see her warm smile.

Despite her nature, uncertainty has begun to settle in the pit of his stomach. Being a father was never something he considered, but now the notion is a reality, and with each passing moment it becomes more and more real. 

Whether involved or not, John Constantine is going to be a father, and that thought sends a shiver up his spine.


	3. Week 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: general self loathing, mentions of character deaths from the film

John isn’t the type of person to share what, or how, he feels. For years and years he has had (relatively) no trouble keeping what he felt, what had happened to him, to himself, and for the most part it has worked out fine. He is quite content in the mystery that surrounds him and what he does. Loneliness does, however, linger in the pit of his stomach, in the ache of his skin, desperate for someone’s comforting touch, or the gentle words he has yet to receive. He only ever tells people what happened when he needs to, and even then details are missed and pain obscured. Constantine is a kept soul, almost unwavering in his secrecy, walls reinforced with every new interaction like clockwork. He only ever told Angela so much about what his parents did to him when he started seeing things, only ever told Chas scarce scraps of information about his past. He only ever told a handful of people about his first death, the first two minutes he spent below. John is private, and it doesn’t take a detective to figure that out. 

So, in that regard, his new situation is not any different — he has not told a single soul, not saved nor damned, that he is going to be a father. What _is_ different, though, is that this time around, he _wants_ to, because for once, John doesn’t have the answer to his problem.

For the past two weeks, it feels like he has barely left the fire escape. 

A day passed initially, when he went out onto the grates to gather his thoughts, and nothing came. Two days, three days, four days, five. One week, every day spent on the porch at sunset, trying desperately to collect the scattered thoughts in the fading light like children grasping at fireflies in a field. He called her, once, and asked for more time. Just to process, to ponder, and she granted it with no hesitation. But she is still waiting for his answer, and that thought presses on his brain, unwavering in its presence.

It’s sunset again, and he’s back on the fire escape, seeking answers in the passing cars and the way the city speaks. A stick of peppermint gum, flavour lost and texture hardened, gets continually torn between John’s teeth. It’s his third stick in the past hour. It’s been two weeks since she told him, and John’s chewed his way through nine packets of gum already. Worryingly, John has only a handful of feelings about the situation, and they are mostly negative. 

For starters, would it even be safe having her around him, let alone having a child? He’s a one man plague, anyone who’s known him long enough can attest through their lack of presence. Barely anyone who knows John Constantine makes it out alive, and he cannot let someone like Peony and her unborn be wrapped up in his expanding spider-web of dead bodies.

On the other hand, however, is knowing that it’s unfair to leave her to raise a child on her own. Would everything in his life be less complicated without her in it? Most likely. But that isn’t the point. Peony is around, and she’s growing a baby. _His_ baby, and he knows it’s unfair to her not to at least support her a little bit. She doesn’t deserve the brunt of his bad luck and coldness because of a situation that was partly his own fault.

Finally, there is that inkling in his chest, an idea the size of a pomegranate seed, that considers that perhaps being a father would be fulfilling, would bring _something_ that he had been missing for so long: human connection. When he feels those stirrings in his chest he bats them away — they’re counter productive, he tells himself.. But sometimes his heart nurtures an idea of family — whether it be lost friends all clustered close, or something his heart can’t imagine. How drained he is sometimes, remembering how alone he truly is.

He tells himself it isn’t fair to ask her to be family (adding that he doesn’t want to ask that of her anyway), and it isn’t fair to abandon her either. It’s an impossible answer to give to an endless question, and it’s expected within a few days. It’s moments like this that he could really use a cigarette.

John spits his gum out on the grates below his feet, a heavy sigh following. A decision must be made, and that makes his stomach churn with doubt. Defeated for the evening, he ducks his head under the window to enter his apartment, and bumps it at the sight of a figure standing in his kitchen.

“God—“ he hisses, stepping into the room, and he looks up from the tile to see Chas standing in his kitchen. 

Chas looks the same, with the same boyish features and permanently youthful appearance, however the noticeable addition to his Half-Breed status are his wings. His grey wings are stretched across the continuous room, staggering in size and existence. John never quite gets used to their presence, no matter how many times he sees Angel wings. It’s still a surprise to see them on Chas, for whom he thought would be another ghost lingering, lost, in his day-to-day. John still remembers hearing the crack of his former apprentice’s bones, the way his body slammed into the tiles at Ravenscar. The sounds ring in his head like an awful alarm, and he pushes them away with an irritated hurt in his heart.

John gives a tentative rub to his throbbing skull as he strides into the kitchen, brushing off the memory with his usual snark, “What, you become a Half-Breed and forget how to knock?”

“It’s nice to see you too, John,” Chas greets, calm and solemn. He’s changed since becoming a Half-Breed. Of course, John is glad he’s alive (in an undead way), but he’s not the same. He’s noticeably more calm; not as nervous or even excitable as he was when he was alive. John misses how things were before all of the toll of last year, and Chas’ being there, being human, composes that.

“What are you doing here, Chas?” He drawls, “I suppose you’re not just visiting,”

“Not this time, I’m afraid. I’m here to discuss your situation,”

_Situation?_ John thinks to himself. _Oh Lord, what is it this time?_ Rolling his eyes, he presses his former apprentice for more clarification, “Enlighten me,”

“Do you even know what situation I’m talking about, John?”

The thought of Peony crosses his mind very briefly, and John considers it. But John is exceptionally good at winding people up. So — although having an inkling of an idea that it might be linked to her — he presses on, feigning unawareness, “Not particularly. Was it because I ran a red light last week? Has my new promise of salvation been broken because I had to get to an artifact drop by eleven-thirty?”

“It’s not broken,” Chas says, his voice soothing in a way that Gabriel’s never was, but its tainted by his warning of, “Not yet, anyway,”

John snickers, ambling to the liquor cabinet, “There’s always a catch with you guys. And always with the ominous shit,” And he reaches for a tumbler, preparing for whatever situation Chas is soon to drop in his lap, “You flounce around the truth like bad poets,”

“Well, John, I thought in your infinite wisdom you would’ve known she was special from the minute you met her,”

The exorcist feels his blood run cold in his veins, staring blankly at the off-white backsplash. The tumbler is his life preserver in that moment, as he feels himself drowning in the possibilities of his words. _Special?_ What did he mean _special?_ She wasn’t a Half-Breed, he would have been able to tell. And it wasn’t like he _hadn’t_ been with them before; a good half of his former lovers were not wholly human, after all. But he always knew. He _always_ knew. What made her different? Why hadn’t he known she was different? What made Chas’ visit marked by a warning?

“Peony. The woman you slept with,” his former apprentice offers, and John’s jaw tightens.

“I figured,”

“You didn’t realise she was a marked woman? Not even a sense?”

“My feelers were off that night,” he says defensively, ignoring the first part of his sentence for the moment, “I need a break, you know. You know what happened the last time they were on twenty-four-seven,”

The thought of his first suicide crosses his brain before it refocuses on that word. Marked. _Marked?_ Why does that ring a bell? Something he read somewhere, years ago when he was first studying, searching for _answers_ , for something that would tell him why he was the way he was. Why he was cursed. That word came up twice, maybe, but there was never a definite or detailed explanation. It was like a fine kept secret; an under-documented occurrence he was now in the middle of.

“Even if your feelers were off, you would’ve been able to notice. The way you notice Half-Breeds. You would’ve felt it like you always do,”

John’s powers have been attuned, over many years of study. They once burned his soul, unwavering in their power, in the ways they had a hold of him. He saw everything. He sensed everything. No two way mirrors, no safety cords, nothing to separate him from the unknown. From that soul-sucking abyss his powers often tried (and, as his suicide proved, succeeded) to lead him into. He harnesses them much better now. He will always see -- his eyes will always burn with the true faces of creatures. He will always know their eyes, and the ways he looks at them, feeling how they see him. That stunning moment of true recognition, of hunter and hunted (depending all on John’s luck that day). Feeling, intuition, can be turned down to a small little voice. Never the booming one it once was, alerting him of danger at every turn, always shaking his shoulders much too late. His intuition is now a whisper when he wants it to be, an inkling of a feeling he can recognise and choose to ignore. Should he act upon it, however, is when that feeling grows. How he uses his powers is another thing -- a string of divine energy courses through him, a feeling at the back of his neck, below his brain, all down his spine. Astral energy, harnessed for jobs and other world-saving endeavours. He harvested that energy when the cancer got worse, summoning with all his mortal energy that sweet drop of astral elixir, the only thing that would help him get up some days. In saying all this, John should have noticed her difference. He should have felt that voice, warning him.

John watches Chas, uncertainty bristling up the former’s spine as the latter sits across from him, bronze eyes gazing out the window, a look of struggle on his face. The silence is deafening, and as John searches the plains of his mind for answers he feels his chest tightening. But there are answers that need to be divulged, so, ignoring how he feels, he presses on.

“I’ve only heard about that twice. Care to tell me what it means?” He asks.

Chas begins to sputter, “It-It’s difficult to explain, I’m only new John they don’t tell me much,”

“Well what _did_ they tell you?”

“Well, look, when you met her, did she have like-like a yellowy kind of light? Around her face? Like an angelic glow but not quite...full,”

Memories begin to swarm his brain. He remembers the bar lights cast across her face, her wide smile. The way she touched his arm, got him drunk on her affection. He shoos the distracting thoughts away, and instead projects an image of her as he last remembers. A wide smile, beautiful honey hair cascading down her shoulders, a very faint ring of golden light if he remembered hard enough, like the neon sizzle of an old television set once turned off. Surely that was club lights. _Surely_ that was club lights.

“Was _that_ supposed to be the warning? That was nothing, they expect me to—!”

“Geez, John—“

The voices begin overlapping as they each go on their tangents, John blaming the lack of warning and defending his mistakes and Chas scolding him for it. A year ago, it would have been the other way around.

“What? What does it even _mean_?” John’s voice erupts over the both of them.

“‘Marked’ women are supposed to bear children with your ability,” the Half-Breed snaps, sitting forward, “I don’t know much about it, but I know you’re in deep shit, John. Marked women, they aren’t supposed to carry or bear children by partners that have the sight. You meddled,”

Constantine, ever intent on defending his actions, chuckles, “I don’t _meddle_ ,” 

“Yes you do. You—you’ve meddled with this woman’s fate and she’s going to bear a child with your proclivities,”

“Meaning?”

“Think of that child she has as Constantine two-point-oh. Except that child can travel planes like that,” he says with a snap of his fingers, “No intervention, no spells, no magic, nothing. They think it, they will it, they go. They’ll conjure and cast with ease — abilities you spent _years_ perfecting will be perfected in a matter of months,”

The familiar lurch in John’s stomach returns violently, and with widening eyes and worrying thoughts he says, “She wants to keep it,”

“She’s in danger,” Chas warns, eyes serious, “You _know_ they don’t want two of you walking this plain,”

“Well have you heard anything on the grand old Half-Breed grapevine? You gotta work with me here, kid,”

“Nothing. Not yet. But I don’t doubt there’ll be activity soon. Look, for now you just need to keep the mother safe. That child will be fine until they start seeing, which won’t be for a few years yet. And who knows if they’ll do what you do, in the end. Besides, Half-Breeds have bigger fish to fry John, what with turning souls and all,” he says, trying to be comforting, “John, you can protect her,”

“Oh yeah? I did a great job with you then, didn’t I?” The exorcist says harshly, but Chas ignores him.

“It’ll work out, John. You just have to be vigilant.” The Half-Breed says, offering him a weak smile.

The decision is made for him, in that moment, and with a flap of his wings Chas rockets into the abyss, leaving Constantine alone in his apartment.

He opens a new pack of gum.

|||

The Hospital’s name is Sacred Briar, he is told. It’s in North Hollywood, a forty-or-so minute drive from his apartment, and by the time he arrives, the clock hits 1:30.

“Shit,” he murmurs under his breath, quickly pulling into a spot in the parking complex, and he hastily leaves, making his way to the building.

Sacred Briar is a stark contrast to Ravenscar, his old haunting grounds. The building looks bright and cheery in the mid afternoon sun, with doctors and patients walking to and from the building. A couple precariously carrying a squirming newborn in a car seat make their way out of the doors as John makes his way in. They’re too engrossed in their little bundle to notice him, talking excitedly amongst themselves about their baby and how beautiful he is. John doesn’t believe he’ll ever see himself in the position of an excited parent, no matter how close fatherhood looms.

He thinks back to his own parents, and wonders how they reacted to bringing him home for the first time. He remembers his father telling him how his mother cuddled her new baby and how overcome with love he was. His father told him this in better times, of course. Before everything changed. Before John started to see, started to feel, everything he did.

The elevator up to the third floor is much too slow, and his time is wasted on his thoughts and how they now run rampant in his brain. They are sirens, screaming and wailing, alerting him of Peony’s impending doom. He tries to remedy them with what Chas had said, and a part of him believes it, but deep down he knows better. Half-Breeds are self-serving, and if that self-service means attacking a pregnant woman, then so be it.

He’ll have to consult his old books for this, perhaps even Midnite if he gets desperate enough. One thing he knows he needs immediately, though, is a Trinity necklace — an interloping symbol secured in a circle. He knows he has one locked away in a drawer — it was Hennesey’s once, and its protection never faltered, not until the previous wearer took it off.

The image of Hennesey’s body clouds his mind, a fog over his concentration.. All the memories of his blank eyes, his palm opened like a bloodied, blooming flower, apparate in his consciousness, and John’s tired and defeated tone can only muster a, “Poor bastard,” tone tender and sad despite his choice of words.

When the doors open, and John steps out into the cool hallway, he looks down one side and sees his old partner. Hennesey’s eyes, smoking white and ghostly, are daggers in Constantine’s own. The former priest blinks once, and drifts away like a fog. John gazes for a moment at the now vacant spot, before turning in the other direction, toward the nurse’s station.

Constantine is directed to a room down the hall, informed that the doctor is soon to arrive, and he quickly lets himself in the door, only to be met with two sets of eyes — one glad to see him, the other judging.

Peony is reclined on a hospital chair, a cord running from underneath her, now carefully sitting up to greet him. Her papery hospital gown crinkles as she moves, dotted with four-petaled daisies, “Hey,” she smiles. The other woman in the room, tall, with wavy red hair and dark eyes, seems unimpressed by his presence. 

“Hi,” he greets, ignoring the other person in the room, “Who’s that?”

“This is my friend Margaret,” Peony explains, “But I call her Maggie,”

“But you can call me Margaret,” The red-head says coldly, eyes like stone as she watches him.

“Charming,” John smiles curtly.

“Please, you two,” the young woman in the chair asks, and the two cease their words, with Constantine making his way over to Peony, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Sorry I’m late,”

“I’m glad you’re here,” She tells him, “This appointment’s supposed to be the long, boring one, but thanks for being here, it means a lot to me,”

He offers her a weak, half-smile, his mind still on what Chas said, and her guest is quick to slice through their gentle moment like a hot knife through butter.

“So what you only _just_ decided to come at the last minute?”

“I was working through some things,” he says, turning to look at her.

“Well it’s nice of you to finally decide this was important enough,”

John’s brows furrows at the woman, “And why are you here, exactly? I don’t remember Peony saying there was a guest joining us,”

“I gave her a lift, since you didn’t even bother to offer,”

He watches from the corner of his gaze as Peony sits up in her chair, her voice firm “Guys,” 

His voice is daring as he decides to push his luck, head cocking as he says, “And you’re still here?” 

“Well I couldn’t just leave her, considering you only just decided to come. Showing support for a poor woman you fucked and left is so difficult, after all,”

“Hey!” Peony yelps, pushing herself up in her chair, “ _Both_ of you can cool it otherwise you’re both leaving, I don’t want either of you here if you’re going to be yapping at each other like feral animals. Maggie, you don’t need to bark at John because I can do that myself, and you have no place talking about me like that when I’m right here. And John, she’s only trying to help, so stop pushing it,” 

There’s a beat of silence before Margaret speaks up, “Sorry, Peony,”

“Good. Now him,” she quips, turning her head away from the red head.

Margaret’s eyes land on John, voice stoic as she says, “Sorry, John,”

Peony’s gaze turns expectantly to John, and he groans.

“Sorry, Margaret,”

“That’ll do,” the pregnant woman hums, disappointment evident in her tone, and like a blessing of time John hears the doctor enter the room.

“Saved by the bell,” Margaret murmurs.

Before he can even see the doctor’s face, he sees their wings. They touch the corners of his vision, and when he turns to look at them he sees a person with short brown hair, and his eyes widen at the sight of them, their gaze briefly meeting his, eyes glazed over in bronze light.

“Afternoon,” they say warmly, gliding past John and over to their patient, “I’m Doctor Glenn, I’ll be your obstetrician over the next few months…”

Their pleasantries fade into the background of John’s concentration as he observes them. Their back is turned to him, gray wings outspread across the small office. Their right wing twitches, and the movement knocks a small jar off one shelf. 

“Oh dear!” They gasp, turning, and a rush of air passes him as they motion to the jar, thankfully in one place on the floor.

“Mustn’t have been put back properly,” John says snidely, and the Half-Breed glares at him briefly before standing.

“You must be the father,” Doctor Glenn says, “John, right?”

“Constantine,” he confirms assertively.

“It’s nice to meet you,” 

With a flick of their hair they turn toward their patient, leaving the exorcist to construct his plan of action.

_They’re breaking the rules_ he thinks to himself, walking to the pregnant woman’s side as the obstetrician fires up the monitor.

Upon the monitor is the sonogram, a few white waves upon a black screen, moving as Doctor Glenn fiddles with the mouse. He’s seen sonograms before — never of friends’ babies, or those in his own family, only in books or in media. The radio waves are like a dark ocean, swirling and widening, closing and opening like little pockets of secrets. John catches himself looking down at Peony, whose hands are clutched together, knuckles turning white in anticipation. They’re plump and small, and he contemplates briefly how small they’d be compared to his own. 

She looks so eager, so happy and excited in that chair, and he hates himself then. He hates himself for the trouble that will eventually befall her, courtesy of only himself.

“Alright, if you look around here,” the obstetrician begins, and Constantine looks back to the screen to see their fingers upon it, circling a white spot, “Do you see that little dot right here? Looks like a kidney bean? 

“Yes,” The young woman replies, and John can hear the excitement brimming in her voice. 

“That’s the fetus,” They confirm, and John feels a shiver down to his feet. He never knew how he would feel when he heard those words, when he would see what he currently saw. None of this seems real, just a fabrication of his visions, a taste of the life he could have had if he were normal. It’s perfectly real, but the future child doesn’t seem that way at all. It’s too small, practically lifeless, a dormant being unborn and unmoving. And yet, there is a rush that courses his veins — not quite excitement, but perhaps curiosity, interest. Had he really helped make that? Was that really, partly, his doing? 

John looks down at the woman again, who’s still gazing in wonder at the screen, and her hands are unfurled — one against the chair, and one protectively on her stomach. He doesn’t need to ask her how she must feel, it’s evident enough from the look of delight on her face. The clang of guilt rises in his chest again, and Chas’ warning makes him tense. But her smile, her warm gaze, is hopeful, and his nerves dim somewhat. He hopes, then, that this situation won’t be ruined for her.

“I’ll take some measurements but I’d say you’re around six or seven weeks pregnant,” 

“That’s _it_?” Margaret asks, and Constantine narrows his eyes at her, head tilted to the side in his usual, snarky way.

“Why are you still here?” He asks harshly, and Peony glares up at him.

“I’m not going to ask nicely again, so just don’t,” she warns, then looks at her friend, “And yes, that’s it. I’m only a few weeks along, Maggie,”

Her friend nods, “Right. I don’t know I thought it might’ve been bigger,”

“It’s a common misconception,” The obstetrician says, although Constantine doubts what they say, “I’ll give you three a few moments, then I’ll be back to run additional tests,”

They motion to leave, and without saying anything to the two women he follows the doctor quickly out the door.

“You can’t touch me, John Constantine,” they say, moving over to the nurse’s station.

“Listen, Half-Breed,” he hisses, staring holes into the back of their neck, “No human contact. That’s the rule, isn’t it?”

“There’s caveats even you don’t know,” They say, cocking their head to the side to monitor him, “You don’t even know who I am, do you?”

“Can’t say I have the pleasure,” he murmurs, and the Half-Breed chuckles.

“Lailah,” They say, turning to him, and an amused puff of air passes through his nose.

“Angel of conception. Figures,”

“I remember when you were born,” they say softly, shuffling some documents in their arms, “A few weeks early. Your father sat so diligently outside the delivery room. Your mother was a wreck, but she was so loving toward you. You were so small, so weak. So innocent back then, John,”

“I’m glad you seem to think they were good people,” he chides, “What are these supposed caveats, then, Lailah?”

“I’m allowed to interact,” they explain, “I don’t push agendas or beliefs. I don’t convince humans to do His bidding, not like His other little foot soldiers. I’m, simply put, a reporter, an observer. And it helps to have someone on the ground to monitor how many marked women are giving birth,”

“So you know she’s marked,”

“Of course I do. It’s my job to know, and frankly that’s why I’m worried about her,” they express, walking back to the room, “People who have the sight procreating with those who are marked? It’s…Difficult. I can’t remember the last time it happened,”

His pace quickens behind them, “The last time?”

“It would have been a few Millennia ago, surely. I don’t quite remember what happened, it was in my last incarnation. I was only made Half-Breed a few centuries ago, mind you. I don’t remember much of my past life. I know it’s happened before, but never with someone as powerful, as attuned to their powers as you,”

“So what does this mean for her?” He asks worriedly, and his chest tightens as they get to the door of the room. 

“I’m not sure. We can only monitor her and see,” they go to open the door, but before they do they turn to John one last time, “Cosmically, this wasn’t supposed to happen. There’s supposed to be some sort of pull in place on both you and the mother. A pull you would have sensed, given your powers. It’s something that’s meant to prevent this from happening, to prevent both you and herself from procreating with those who have the sight and those who are marked. Somehow that pull between you was non-existent,”

His brows furrow, head cocking to the side, “A design flaw?” He asks, searching for the answers like this were a long-drawn cold case, and the Half-Breed considers it for a moment.

“A doorway, perhaps, for your child to be conceived,” They decide, then, with a glance up at him, “Should you have wanted her enough to go through with it.” 

The rest of the appointment is dull, but he tries to listen to the obstetrician as they talk without focusing too much on all the information he’s yet to fully process. Their words are blurry in his ears, crinkled and twisted like gibberish, but he tries still to concentrate, even more so when he notices Margaret penning stuff down in a small notepad. She looks over at him with her stern gaze, and there is a flicker of sympathy as she takes in his face. Though not enough to be overly kind, perhaps maybe just helpful, she tilts the notepad a little more in his direction. He nods a brief thank you, and she goes back to writing.

When the appointment is over, and the follow ups are booked, the trio walk the halls, the women leading while John follows. He watches them converse with a twinge of envy — not that he necessarily wants to interrupt their conversation (one that seems focused on their jobs), but because of the closeness they share, one he misses with his old friends. The thought of them, of all of them, makes him feel like shit. 

It is entirely his fault they are dead, he tells himself, and he doesn’t deserve an ounce of kindness because of it. It is better for John to die alone, after a long life, one of thought and guilt. To be alone is to suffer, and he tells himself it is what he deserves, but he doesn’t know any better. It’s what he’s always been told, after all. The voices, the Half-Breeds, always telling him when he was young and vulnerable: you, John Constantine, are nothing, and nothing you will do will ever change that.

Still, Peony looks back at him briefly, having fallen behind the pack, and stops in her tracks. She smiles at him as he approaches, and her words are warm like coffee on a winter morning, “Can’t leave you behind, can we?”

“Not unless you want to,” he says sharply, and she rolls her eyes, playfully hitting the back of her hand against his arm.

“Why would we wanna do that?”

Margaret smirks as they approach her, “I can think of a few—“

“That’s enough from you, please.”

Down and out of the hospital, the trio enter the car park, and as both John and Margaret go to part in their separate ways, Peony stops.

“You still wanna come with me?” The red head asks her friend, and the pregnant woman looks between them two, torn, before looking back to John.

“Do you mind if I come with you?” She asks timidly, and, though at first taken aback, he nods.

“Yeah, come on,” He agrees, and with a sinking pit in his stomach, adds, “We should talk anyway,”

The two women say their good-byes, with Margaret passing her friend the notes she had taken. The red-head parts off, a singular wave thrown in John’s direction. He nods his acknowledgement, and the parents-to-be make their way to his car, the wooden heels of her clogs clacking against the pavement. 

“Thanks,” Peony says, “For everything, today. It’s nice to know that you care,” John looks back at her, and her eyes are trained on the path as she walks. She continues, “You know, I wasn’t sure if you would want to be involved. And again, you don’t need to if you don’t want, and I don’t expect you to be, but it’s nice that you showed up. It means a lot to me.” It is then that her gaze meets his, and for the first time he properly takes notice of her eyes. 

Oh.

They’re something else entirely.

They’re dazzling and gentle, a beautiful forest green. Light bounces off of them as bright as a new moon. They captivate him wholly, and with a sudden weight in his chest he struggles to refocus. Having her look at him was…Peaceful. Pleasant. Calming, even. Before she can bring up his silence, he murmurs a deep, “No problem,” and he brings his gaze away from hers, refocusing his attention. He buries those fleeting feelings deep where he hopes they won’t ever rear their heads again.

If his psychic powers could sense human reactions, he would have felt the blush that appears on her cheeks when he looks away.


	4. Week 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Mention of self harm scars (brief but there).

Driving to her apartment, John feels the sinking weight of the situation settling in his stomach, and his heart thumps like mad. You wouldn’t notice it if you looked at him, of course, John has a brilliant poker face — always collected, always hard-eyed, with a sharp tongue and smug air about him. He casts his gaze to the rear view mirror as he drives, observing himself for a moment. He sees only the determined gaze of a very tired man, one most acclimatised to danger and to worry. Thirty-eight years on this earth, and his composure has been refined and strengthened into granite.

LA traffic has always been a nightmare. John’s had plenty of tickets over the course of his life. Speeding tickets, parking tickets, beeping-his-horn-just-to-piss-someone-off tickets, all because of the traffic. Time always ticked by agonizingly slow as he waited, and the urgency of a case boiled over like an unwatched pot. Today, however, the traffic is minimal. The roads are quieter. For once, he misses the traffic, the stretching of time. But the inevitable still looms, and the knowledge of what Peony needs to be told — today, _now_ — tightens his senses, like a devilish hand on his shoulder.

He drops somewhat below the speed limit, he takes the ‘scenic route’ (even if the aforementioned scenery was only gray and beige buildings), but he still arrives at her place with only five minutes’ delay. 

John pokes his head out the window, craning his neck upward, and the gray building blocks the mid-afternoon sun. There’s a familiarity about it he can’t place his finger on at first.

He’s never been here, he reminds himself of that fact as he parks his car. But the familiarity soon sends a cool chill up his spine. The building itself — its staggering height, its small windows, the very colour — reminds him too much of the hospitals he would frequent in his youth. Where doctors would poke and prod his skin, restrain his arms, and shock his skull.

It is strange now, to think about. It _hurts_ to think about. But pain and John Constantine go hand in hand, two things frequently intertwined, and a bond that deep and long is near impossible to break, to heal from.

Granted, there is no longer a death sentence hanging over his head. But how is he supposed to live now, after knowing he would die early for so long? How is he supposed to live, unsure of the future, and so haunted and hurt by the inescapable past?

He hates her building, he decides. It’s too close for comfort.

Peony is a flower sprung up from broken pavement, greeting him as he arrives at her door. He doesn’t need to put out his feelers to notice her worry, however. The awkward greeting, the way she twirls her hair in her fingers, both signs of uncertainty brewing beneath her skin.

Peony’s apartment is much nicer than his own, and he would gather more expensive. Cream coloured walls are decorated with bright art prints; reproductions of Keith Haring’s work, he observes. The colours are lovely on the wall, almost dancing like the bodies in the frame. Through the short hallway is the lounge room. There, a dark coffee table sits proudly in the centre, a vase filled with wilting summer blooms atop it (placed with care, however, on top of a small blue tablecloth). A fat chair upholstered in white fabric is pointed at the table. A long, lived-in, brown leather couch similar to that found in a television show is similarly clustered around it.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” the hostess says politely, and she motions into the kitchen, “Tea? Coffee? Water?”

“Tea is fine,” He agrees, and she nods, moving away.

While she is gone, his eyes survey the rest of the space. Another corridor leads to closed doors, presumably bedrooms and bathrooms. From where he sits in the lounge room, he notes the wine-coloured rug underneath his feet, and the neat stack of cork coasters atop the table. It’s a sweet little apartment, kept in good spirits by the care and time its sole resident must spend on it. John thinks of his own apartment, and comes to the realisation that it isn’t a home, not really, just a place he rests his weary head. 

She returns a short moment later, carrying an icy blue teacup under her pinkie, and a colourful teapot cradled in both hands. The teapot is shaped like a basket full of strawberries, with the spout green like a vine, and the handle brown like wicker. Across the body, strawberries pop out, bundled together in punnets. She delicately places the cup down on a coaster and pours, the spout clinking the rim of the cup upon first contact. A pale red liquid splashes out of the pot, pooling in his cup, and an alluring scent follows it.

“Is that enough?” She asks, stopping two inches from the brim, and John nods.

“What is it?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s strawberry tea. You’re not allergic or anything? I should have asked,”

“I’m not allergic,” he assures her.

“Okay, good. Well, I made it myself, so I hope you like it,”

As she takes the pot back to the kitchen, he takes a gracious sip. The tea is warm and sweet; the tang of the berry washes over his tongue, leaving a pleasant aftertaste in his mouth. As relaxing as the red elixir is, it does little to calm his nerves. Although, it is a nice remedy to his tiredness — the drive here almost put him to sleep. 

She returns to the room clutching her own cup, setting herself down in the white chair, “So, do you like it?”

He nods, still nursing his cup in his hands, “Yeah. Yeah, I do,”

“It’s my last batch for a while. I brew up a batch every now and again on special occasions, but nothing that special is coming up again soon,”.

His eyebrows furrow, voice stiff and low, “So this is a special occasion, then?” 

“Yeah, you’re an important guest. And I like making treats for others,” She smiles, “So, how are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he replies shortly, head looking her way, then, “How ‘bout you?”

“Um, okay. I mean, it could be better. But you don’t wanna hear about that,”

“Enlighten me,” he ventures, delaying the inevitable.

“Well, it’s been pretty terrible then. I thought morning sickness would only be a morning thing. But it’s been pretty sparse throughout the day. I can barely keep my dinner down half the time. And sleeping, it’s either all at once or barely at all,”

“Sorry,”

“Not your fault,” And then she smirks, “Well, that’s only a little true. How are you...processing everything?”

He sets his cup down on a coaster, eyes trained not at her but at his motions, “Me? Why do you care?” 

“Come on. I know we barely know each other but you’re still a part of this, John,” She says, and as he looks up he feels caught by her sympathetic gaze, his ruse of certainty and self-assuredness beginning to crack, “Come on. How are _you_ feeling?”

“Fine,” He says firmly, plainly. His granite-like composure remains. He can tell she’s a little disappointed, her mouth pulls into a small frown, her eyes drop from his gaze. A polite sigh leaves her lips, like an auditory shrug.

“Not much of a sharer, huh? That’s okay. Just let me know if there’s anything seriously wrong you wanna talk about, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” he nods. _Lady, you have no idea what’s seriously wrong._

“Anyway. Um, I guess we should probably settle out what our plan is for the next few months, right? I mean, I’m assuming that’s what you wanted to talk about, right? Unless you’re here to tell me you’re, like, leaving the country or something,”

“I’m not leaving the country,” he says, an amused puff of air passing through his nostrils. Relieved for the opportunity to stall the inevitable, he asks, “Did you have anything in mind you wanted to talk about?”

“Me? Oh, well...Yeah. I wanted to discuss a few things. But, look, I’m not in any sort of rush, do you want me to show you around?”

“Lead the way,”

John is led through the apartment, past a pink-tiled bathroom and her bedroom, and she stops at an almost bare room. It’s an office space — with cream walls, grey carpet, a white desk stacked high with documents and multicoloured folders. Plain, and simple, and probably what was best for a nursery. Leaning against the desk is the only colourful thing in the room: another Haring print, of an orange baby against a bright blue background. Thick black lines stem from around the child, a statement of sorts, drawing in attention and importance. 

“This is where I want to make the nursery,” She explains, gesturing to the space where a filing cabinet lays, “I was thinking about putting the crib here, and the changing table there. What do you think?”

He furrows his brows at her, asking without much thought, “What do I think? It’s not my house,” 

Her words freeze, and she shakes her head a little, “Right. I’m sorry, I— I don’t know...Where my head is at, sometimes. Why would you mind?” she says, the last few words more or less to herself.

He knows what he should say, maybe not the specific words or the tone, but at least the subject matter. But he can’t quite muster them. As she apologises, John shakes his head.

“It’s fine, Peony,” is the only thing he can say, but even then he knows it’s not really what she needs to hear.

“Thanks, sorry, again. I get so excited sometimes I get ahead of myself,” she explains, “Come on,”

For a passing moment, he thinks to himself that her excitement is sweet. His grouchiness is unwarranted a lot of the time, and he knows it. It is, however, second nature to him now. 

“John?” She says softly when the tour is done. The pair return to the living room, and as John takes a seat on the leather sofa he watches her remain standing, tense.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Ask away,”

She quietens down, her eyes avoiding his own. Then, softly, “You’ll be there when I give birth, right?” 

He hadn’t even considered that yet. In all the thoughts of impending fatherhood, of a _baby_ in his life, he hadn’t given any thought to the delivery. The screaming, the pain he can’t take away from her. 

The first cry of a newborn. _His_ newborn.

“You don’t have to be there if you don’t want,” Peony assures, taking a seat beside him, “But— Well I’d like it if you were. I’d prefer it if you were. Please,”

“I’ll be there,” He says, the words coming from his mouth before his brain can even decide _yes_ , “Yeah, I will,”

“Thank you, it just puts my mind at ease,” she says, relief warming her features, “I’m really glad we’re doing this...I don’t know what it is about you, but you seem like a good guy. Deep down. Underneath all that snark,” Peony smirks playfully. 

“How deep are we talkin’, here?” He says calmly, ignoring the feelings rising in his chest, and she pauses in a fake contemplative thought.

“Like...Buried somewhere in that chest of yours, deep,” She offers, taking one of her fingers to tap his chest pointedly. He smirks.

“Well you’re the one that’s stuck with me for the next little while. So you’d better get used to that snark,”

“I like it,” Peony admits gently, eyes tactfully falling from his own, “I think it’s what makes you, well, you,”

“So you’re saying you like me,” 

“Well if I didn’t like you at least a little we wouldn’t be here, would we?” She says, scarlet blush rising in her cheeks. A familiar warmth returns to his face, like a visitor come home from a long and tiresome trip. It is nice to indulge; to feel. Even if it is only temporary.

“What are these?” he asks, trying to soothe his blush. He gestures to the colourful blooms in the vase, eager to prolong the inevitable. There is a familiar sprig along the bunch, a few green stalks with yellow blossoms, but he can’t quite remember its name.

“Well, there’s some zinnia’s, marigolds, bits of rue” That was it. He knew that from somewhere, in one of his books he was sure. Before he could even think, she continued, “And a few of me in there,” Peony ruffles the petals of her namesake, and the beauty both she and the flowers share is not lost on him. Her fingers carefully grasp the stem of the pink flower, “Here, smell,”

John takes the bloom from her hand, drifting it under his nose. Unsurprisingly, he can barely smell the blossom. Its smell is distant, as if in another world from his own nostrils. His lungs may now be clean and clear, but his nicotine dependency has certainly left its own effects.

“I can’t really smell it,”

“No?” She asks, “I guess they are getting old,”

John passes the flower back to her, and her fingers graze his hand as she reaches for it. Her touch sends a shiver up his spine, and he watches wordlessly as she places the flower back in the vase, a smile threatening to creep on his face. He looks away as she leans back into the couch. 

“I suppose we can leave other discussions to a later date,” she says, breaking the moment, then, “Did you want to talk about anything else right now?”

And that’s it; that little moment with her has dissipated, and the reality of the situation settles in, like a thought-to-be-gone Half-Breed reappearing in John’s life. 

_Do it like a band-aid. Quickly. Just tell her quickly and it’ll be over._

“Yeah,” John drawls, deep voice reverberating through the space, “This isn’t something you’ll wanna hear, but you need to,”

Her eyebrows knot, “What do you mean?”

“It’s about me, and by extension, the baby,”

There’s an uncomfortable edge in her voice now, a tension pulled tight like a violin string, “Again, what do you mean exactly, John?”

He sighs. Show time.

“When I was born, I was given this...Gift,” He says, “A curse, really. I see things. Demons,”

Peony’s eyes grow wide, and it’s a look he’s seen on many people before. The polite disbelief, a wary look as he delves deeper into his afflictions. Her jaw is clenched, her hands suddenly clasped together in her lap. Out of his reach.

“Demons,” she repeats lightly.

“Yeah. And I know you probably think I’m crazy right about now. But this is my life, this is my job—“

“Even if that’s true, what does this have to do with my baby?”

“I’m not sure of the specifics yet, but it’s not looking too good,”

“Well what’s that supposed to mean?” She demands, the edge in her voice almost breaking.

“My powers — sight, sense, all that shit — that’s gonna be imparted onto the baby,”

The woman is silent for a minute, then she raises a weary hand to her face, kneading the spot between her eyebrows, “No,”

“No what?”

“No I’m not— I’m not doing this,” She chortles, in a tone that tells him his words have exceeded her patience, “God, you had me fooled. You know, I actually thought you cared,”

“Peony, I do care—“

“You don’t! Why— why would you blatantly lie to my face? Demons? Come on. You couldn’t even think of something good to get out of this?” She huffs, standing bolt upright as she paces the room, “I could tell from day one you weren’t that interested. And that’s fine, and that’s— whatever. You can do what you want, but I just wanted honesty. And instead you’re just? What? Lying straight to my face?”

“What do I have to gain here from lying to you?” He challenges, rising to meet her.

“A chance to get out,”

“Which you gave me plenty of times, and I didn’t take them, Peony.” 

She looks over at him, eyes narrowed. He can tell she’s considering it for a moment, but her gut must tell her otherwise, because the words, “Please leave.” are the next to follow out her mouth.

He does as told, striding out the door in guilty silence. He’s absolutely itching for a cigarette.

|||

She hasn’t contacted him in two days. Somewhere in his gut, he knew this would happen. A stone had settled itself in the pit of his stomach, and when she asked him to leave it was as if that stone grew ten times in weight. His predictions had come true, and yet, it was not like other times when this had happened. When that familiar, intuitive weight would settle inside his body, it would lift when the truth came to the surface. That stone would split and disappear.

His worry, his intuition, has worsened three-fold over these past two days. He has left two voicemails, and the urge to leave another is strong, but deep down he knows it’s pointless. If her mind is made up, it’s made up. He tried, he tells himself. What fate will befall her, he wonders. Perhaps he’s just overreacting, he hopes. Perhaps what Chas and the Doctor had told him was just, in fact, a miscalculation. An error. 

“Yeah right,” John hisses to himself, scolding himself for such a stupid thought. She’s doomed, and she doesn’t want his help. Convincing her is fruitless without proof, and whatever proof that will come to her will end her.

John’s sitting on the balcony again. It’s nighttime, maybe just before midnight, and the warmth of the day has stuck around to the night. The TV inside the house is playing an infomercial, and in the distance he can hear a couple arguing. But his mind isn’t focused on the noises. He’s racking his brain, devising backup plan after backup plan to ensure her safety. If she doesn’t want him around, that’s fine. But safety spells can be cast, and that divine energy he funnelled for himself can be passed on, through thought and intuition, to her. Things can still be done, even if she’s not a presence in her life. It’s a shame, though, because John was beginning to enjoy being around her.

The gum between his teeth is going hard, a side-effect of his intense chewing, and the flavour has worn off. The night is so peaceful, and so quiet, and John can only stare into the quiet street and hope Peony is alright.

It is in that moment that the phone rings from inside his apartment.

John’s eyes look up, and he starts hurriedly making his way indoors, banging his head on the window as he enters. He strides over to the counter and picks up the corded phone.

“This is Constantine,”

Peony’s voice is near silent on the end of the line, “John, there’s someone here,”

His eyes narrow, panic rising in his chest, “What makes you think that?”

“There’s these noises. Like...Clicking. Regurgitating. But I can’t see them, but I just, I _know_ something is here,”

He grabs an empty flask from the cupboard above his head, “Get your things together, I’m on my way.”

She sucks in a shaky breath, “Please hurry.” 

|||

He doesn’t care about tickets, about speeding fines or driving through stop signs. He just drives, fast and hurriedly, and screeches to a halt at the bottom of her building. He slams his door shut and jogs over. He carries only three things. The first is his trusty black Bible, weathered in his calloused hands. The second is in his breast pocket, and it’s Hennesey’s old Trinity necklace. The chain jangles as he runs, the sacred, interloping symbol thudding against his heart. The final item is a flask, filled to the brim with Holy water.

Regurgitating and clicking doesn’t sound like a regular, Hell-born demon. That being said, how did it even cross over? This is something he wonders with urgency as he races up the stairs. Running up six flights of stairs was surely quicker than waiting for the convenience of the elevator. His head pounds, and his breaths feel much too short, but he arrives at the sixth floor, a thin veil of sweat at his forehead. He jogs down the hallway, arrives at her door, and catches his breath silently, an ear pressed to the door. There is definitely clicking, and the wretched regurgitating grows louder.

_Show time, John._

He pushes his weight into the door, stumbling into the apartment. His eyes scan the space, looking for the honey blonde.

“Peony?” He calls. The apartment goes silent, and this only adds to his worry. He moves further into the room, eyes still scanning, “Peony, I’m here,”

A door creaks, and his head whips to see a cupboard door open. A hand slides out, a finger wagging him over. He skulks over to the cupboard, where a pile of books lay abandoned outside it. He nudges her hand with the tip of his leather shoe, and the door opens more. He crouches down, and is met by Peony’s tear-streaked face. Her phone is clutched tightly in her hands, her knees pulled up to her chest and her head craned uncomfortably to look at him.

“Where did you hear the noise coming from?” John asks softly.

“Bathroom,” She whispers.

“Here,” He reaches for the necklace in his pocket, “Come here,” She cautiously moves from the cupboard, and when her head is out he says gently, “Stay still,” He unclasps the necklace, leaning around the back of her neck to secure it. At this distance he can smell her floral perfume, hear the breath in her throat hitch.

“This is a Trinity necklace,” He whispers, still securing it, “This will protect you. Just try to relax,”  
He clasps the necklace and pulls away from her neck, his hand resting on her arm. The shaking seems to diminish as his face meets hers.

“Thank you,” She says, meeting his gaze. 

He gives her a small nod, gazing down into her eyes for a moment. Glassy and wide, and still so pretty.

A clicking sound interrupts their moment, and John pries his eyes away from her own. His head whips around to follow the noise, standing from his spot.

“Stay there,” He orders softly, and she nods.

John cautiously ambles through the apartment, poking his head behind corridors and walls, eyes trained for any Demon activity. A gurgling sound emits from the bathroom, like a pot of boiling water, and the necromancer inches toward the door, his heels clipping against the wood.

From underneath the door slides a black mass, hissing, growing like a wave. The watery black mass steams and rises far above John, threatening to envelop him, and within mere nanoseconds John has yanked the flask from his coat pocket and doused the beast in a dash of Holy water. It collapses to the floor, racing along the wood toward the living room.

“Hey! You want me, you piece of shit!” John yells, deliberately stamping his foot on the floor with a loud thud. The water demon bubbles, contracting in size once more, rapidly motioning toward John. He’s seen this creature only a handful of times, but they’re on the less harmless scale of demons. A demon is still a demon, however, and it can’t be here.

John turns from the creature and runs down the hall, turning right at the kitchen. He looks around rapidly, staring at the staggering creature as it grows in the hallway, racing toward him. His eyes rapidly survey the kitchen, and he haphazardly grabs some pots hanging from a rack. Yanking them down, John forcefully clatters them to the tiled floor. The creature races toward the sound, and Constantine bolts back to the woman in the cupboard.

“We need to be silent,” he whispers, quickly crouching down to her.

“What is that thing?”

“Daemon Hydra; water demon. Comes up through sinks and hoses, crafty fuckers. It can’t see or hear, it detects motion by the vibration of sound, its watery body is sensitive to it,” He explains, “We can’t speak above a whisper, understand?”

She nods.

“Grab your gear and make your way to my car, now,”

Peony does as told, and slips away quietly through the door. As he watches her go, his eyes fall upon the coffee table, the vase. All the flowers were dead and dry now, but the rue seemed as if it had just the tiniest ounce of life left in its stems. He snatches it from the vase.

There was a reason he remembered it; it was in one of his books, somewhere, scribed from something Beeman had once said.

_“So long as it's alive, douse its stems in Holy water and burn them. If you throw it on a Demon, it’s sure to make them start burning, too.”_

It was worth a shot. 

Pulling the flask from his breast pocket, John carefully dips the stems inside. His eyes swing back up to the kitchen, where the creature has fizzled back down to a watery puddle. This would be fine, all he needed was—

He pats his pocket, only to feel flatness. His lighter. _Shit._

Surely there were matches around here somewhere, somewhere in a cupboard. In the kitchen, surely.

Constantine’s long legs cautiously motion toward the room, and as he moves the demon bubbles, twisting around on the floor. The apartment is nearly silent; so quiet, in fact, John can hear the blood in his ears. The exorcist studies the creature intently — its murkiness seems infinite, the puddle like the deepest and darkest shade he’s ever laid his eyes upon. There is no shine upon its surface, it simply absorbs all light like a starving beast. Beeman used to tell him that darkness was like needles against the skin; should any part of you touch that demon, it would feel the pains of Hell threefold.

Swiftly whipping across the tiles, the mass pools near John’s feet. Constantine leaps onto the kitchen bench, feet dangling in the air as he hurriedly presses himself the pale blue backsplash. He feels it before he can see it, and a scream of agony shuffles from his throat as the mass envelops his right foot. The pain is excruciating — like a million burning, poisoned needles repeatedly being stabbed into his skin. His jaw is clenched through his screams, and as he tries to yank himself away the demon takes his other leg. His fist inadvertently slams against the bench, rattling the dishes on the drying rack. The monster continues growing, and with pressing urgence John frantically yanks open a kitchen drawer, only to find nothing. He slams it closed, following with the next draw. He rifles around, the demon amassing to his own size now, taking both his legs up to the knee. The burning, stabbing pain strengthens.

Finally, he spots a tiny red box of Mallory Matches. A woman in a devil’s costume is on the cover, her fiery pitchfork held aloft as she stands above the text. John snatches up the box and fumbles for the opening, only to spot a single match left. The creature engulfs his thighs now, taking up most of the floor. 

Frantic, he strikes the match against the box. Once isn’t enough. He feels the needly pain crawling up his skin. Twice still doesn’t do it.

With one final strike, the match sets ablaze, an orangey-blue flame flickering. He waves it around the ends of the dry yellow blooms, watching them set alight. They begin to race down the stems, and with diminishing strength he throws the burning plant onto the demon. It ripples against its watery skin, and an ungodly hiss of steam erupts from the creature. The pain in his legs begins to diminish, and the demon continues to evaporate into steam, sizzling away into nothingness. 

The pain finally ceases, and John peers over the edge of the kitchen counter to see a plain tiled floor. A sigh of relief escapes his lips, and with aching legs he painfully pulls himself toward the door of her apartment, and out into the hall, slamming it shut behind him.

|||

No words are exchanged on the drive back to his home. The streets are quieter at this time of the night, and the radio plays some dated pop songs, but the pair do not talk to one another. John glances over at his passenger every now and again, only to see her glassy eyes staring out at the road ahead. Perhaps everything is finally becoming real for her; his words finally make sense, and with it the weight of her child’s future becomes three times heavier upon her shoulders. Her soft, slightly plump fingers are clutched around the trinity necklace, her other hand bundling up the hem of her wine-coloured nightgown with white knuckles. He turns into the car park of his building, and when he parks the vehicle he turns briefly to her, only to see her gaze has not drifted. 

He leads the woman through the empty halls of the bowling alley, up into the rickety old elevator with the gated door, and finally into his apartment. The lights have all been left on in the kitchen, and the TV is still on, now showing a rerun episode of _Friends_. John looks over at his one-time lover; she looks shocked, like fear has infiltrated her bloodstream. The canned laughter fills the room uncomfortably, and John clears his throat.

“Why don’t you take a seat, Peony?” He suggests, gesturing to the table, and the woman motions over wordlessly, eyes down.

The television show continues on as John makes his way slowly to the seat opposite hers, finally resting his tired feet as he takes a seat across from her. 

“Would you mind turning that off?” The woman requests, and John picks up the discarded remote from the far end of the table, clicking off the device. It zaps off, and the room grows quiet. Maybe he would prefer the canned laughter and shitty jokes that characters like Chandler and Joey could provide.

Peony bites her bottom lip, and before he can interject with something, anything, she’s opened her mouth, “I’m sorry,”

John’s mouth shuts, out of silence, but then his eyes narrow, head cocked to the side as one of his dark eyebrows raise, “ _You’re_ sorry?”

“For not believing you,”

“If I had a single buck for everyone that didn’t believe me do you think I’d be living here?” He asks, eliciting a small smile from his counterpart, “Don’t worry,”

“Well, is it...gone?” She asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Yeah it’s gone, into thin air. Literally, it steamed up like crazy. I’ll have to scope out your apartment before you can go back,”

“Okay...Well, for now, what do I do?” 

“Get some rest. I’ll take the couch, you can sleep in my bed,” He says, and as he gets up, her hand grabs his. His eyes gaze down at their interlocked hands, her thumb pressed into his skin, the warmth of her skin radiating into his own.

With a jittery anticipation, she asks, “Can we maybe just sit up for a while?” His gaze looks up from their hands to her forest green eyes, locked into him. Suddenly his hand feels so vulnerable in her own, and he becomes acutely aware of the fact that if her fingers brush only slightly upward she’ll feel his past pain on his wrists. 

“Sure.” he agrees, and she pulls her hand away. Though it relieves him somewhat, his hand feels emptier, and colder, without hers.

|||

They only watch the television until the show ends. The group of six’s problems tie up in a neat little bow, smiling and laughing around a coffee table. Peony sits on the opposite end of the couch, which given its size is not especially far. John glances over at her, and sees her tired eyes drooping.

He clears his throat, and the woman forces a blink, peering over at him, “Hmm?”

“How you feelin’?”

“Better,” she admits, “Safer. Thank you again, John, I wasn’t counting on any of this, but I’m just…Glad. That you were there,”

“Sure,” He says, voice soft and thankful in its own uniquely-Constantine way.

Peony smiles at him, eyes shutting as she does so, and John feels something stir in the pit of his stomach. It’s not entirely unpleasant, just different and familiar all at once. He knows the feeling; not as intimately as dread and ‘intuition’, but he was a man after all, and he’d been interested in plenty of people — female, and male — that made his stomach do that familiar flutter. He dismisses the feeling immediately. _It was one night, John_. He reminds himself. _One night._

Before his thoughts can remember that sweaty night, Peony leans her chin into her open palm, asking, “You’re okay with me taking your bed?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Do you need anything?”

“Not right now, but I’ll let you know,” she stands from the couch, stretching as she does so. She slowly makes her way to the bedroom, dark honey-blonde hair catching light from the street lamps outside, “Good night, John.”

“Night.”

He switches off the television, and the sizzle of it, the neon haze, hangs around like a looming shadow. He casts one final glance over to the woman, who now lays in his bed facing away from him.

Though he would not admit it if asked, he is glad to have her company, and even more glad to know she is safe in his little apartment. Perhaps things were coming around, in their own uniquely-Constantine way.


End file.
